The Rain
by Mysteryguy12
Summary: He liked the rain. The rain could drown out the sound of screams, could rust his sword in its scabbard, could wash away the blood on his hands, or hide the tears that fell from his eyes. In the rain, he could be himself again.


The Rain

The air rested heavily over the dark cobblestone streets. Neon lights cast hazy beams of light that seemed to disappear as they spread away from their source. Yellows faded to dull gold and then brown; greens melted into a soft mossy color, muffled by the mist that rose from the ground. The mist itself moved slowly, climbing upwards in thin wispy strands that danced gently in the stagnant air. They seemed to be reaching for something, like long ghostly fingers that desperately leapt for the sky before vanishing into indistinguishable grayness.

Dark clouds crawled and grew darker high above. The massive shapes expanded and thickened, making stars disappear only to reappear brighter than before. A low rumble cascaded over the streets and neon-lit buildings below. It rolled through alleys and squares and crept through keyholes and open windows. The steady breathing of hundreds of sleeping mouths did not stir as the sound washed over their sleeping forms.

Only one pair of ears recognized the deep growl from the sky. The rumbling stretched over mist-moistened silver that bit into the lobe of a single man. Slowly, his eyes turned upwards, bright blue focusing on the blackening masses above. A hand clad in black leather rose up and a single finger stretched out to brush dark brown hair off of the man's forehead. Mist swirled crazily around the sudden motion. Gingerly, the finger traced a line down from his forehead and down across the bridge of his nose.

A single speck of water fell to the cold stony street. It fell fast and tore through the mist before crashing into the ground with barely a noise. The man's eyes followed the drop and looked down at the miniscule dampened patches where the drop had burst apart. Wherever the water had spread, the stone darkened, but the specks of dark stone were shrinking. In a moment, they would disappear.

Another drop of water fell from the sky, crashing to the earth close by the first. There was a short pause, and then another earthbound iota of water burst through the mist, followed by another, then another. Soon enough, the mist was gone, replaced by heavy rain that fell around the man.

The man did not move, as the rain began to soak through his clothes, matting his hair and filling his shoes. He remained still, letting the water wash over him. He felt the weight of the rain crashing down on him, and let it roll off his shoulders, his fingers, the bridge of his nose. The water fell from him and pooled around his feet, soaking his boots.

The man liked the rain. In the rain, nothing was permanent. No one asked questions of the rain. The rain was the only thing that knew exactly where it was going. It had no responsibilities, no connections, no home, no one to look after, and nothing to lose. He liked to sit out in the rain, just like this. He would let the rain soak him through completely, letting his saturated clothes weigh him down until even the thought of getting up made him feel tired.

The constant pressure from all the millions of raindrops crashing down on his head and shoulders felt nice. It was a different pressure than he normally felt. His usual heaviness came from people, or from within. This was a weight from someplace beyond human understanding or control. He could do nothing about this weight. No one could hold him responsible for the rain, not even himself.

He listened to the rain as it fell. It was good. It was a perfect monotony of drop after drop hitting the cobbled streets, the tiled roofs, the metal lamppost, the grassy square, or his own leather jacket. All the sounds blended together into a gray haze of nothing in particular. But in that grayness, there was nothing else.

Rain had the power to drown everything else out and wash it away. That gray noise could drown out the buzzing of the neon lights, or the laughter of the people in the restaurant. It could drive the sound of his own heart from his ears, or the memory of screams from his mind. It could drown out the cries for help from the people he loved. It could rust his sword in his scabbard. It could wash away the blood on his hands, on his face, all over him. It could wash it away so he would never need to think about it again.

In the rain, he could hide his tears.

He could let the sobs wrack his body and pretend he was shivering in the cold. He could let the tears stream down his face, and just pretend like they were nothing more than drops of rain. He could grab his knees and bury his head between them and cry, and all anyone would think is that he was a cold, lost, lonely child. He could be what he really was.

And in that rain, in the midst of the deafening gray noise, soaked to the bone and shivering, he did just that. He let himself be the lonely, sad child that he couldn't be around anyone else. Fifteen years old, with the weight of a world on his shoulders, it was only on nights like this that he could let down his guard. Nights like this when he could be himself, when he could be Squall again.

Because Leon would never cry for hours like this, under the heavy rain. Leon would be inside with all the others, reassuring them that the rain would pass, that they had nothing to worry about. He would let little Yuffie know that the thunder was nothing to be afraid of, that he would protect her, and never let anything happen to her.

But Squall couldn't do that. Squall couldn't protect anyone. Squall was the one with everyone's blood on his hands, with a whole world dead in front of his eyes. Squall was the one who ran, who hid, who cried alone in the rain and let Leon get sick the next day. Squall was the selfish and weak one.

Squall was the frightened little boy, crying in the rain.


End file.
